Work Text:
[idiot1.jpeg]
2010
Minho’s boisterous laughter echoed through the backstage, past the busy staff and sneaking into the various groups’ changing rooms. No one was unsettled by it, despite not being accustomed to seeing a louder side of his character. Still, one or two idols poked their heads out of the doorway, observing the scene unfolding in front of them with a smile on their faces.
Had it been televised like the rest of the event, it would’ve been the perfect intro for one of those variety shows that were so successful nowadays — with the nonsensical comedy that people light-heartedly would laugh about, remembering that the music industry was more than winning awards and fashion statements.
Jonghyun was chasing Minho down the long hallway, sprinting faster past every corner and muttering a sheepish apology as he bumped into an innocent bystander, whether it was a confused make-up artist or a fellow idol, who might have been secretly cheering for him, or Minho himself.
The catch and run went on for long minutes, Minho’s boyish giggles swiftly followed by a corvine head of hair, funny-looking bangs framing Jonghyun’s flushed face.
They were runners, both in their distinctive way, with Minho taking advantage of their distance, and Jonghyun, despite being on the losing side, too proud to give up yet.
The labyrinthine structure of the building somewhat made their little game more enthralling, waning only when a dead end took both by surprise, an abandoned hall they lost themselves into that seemed to belong to a different reality altogether. Foreign to the scorching lights of a music show stage, or the busy rehearsing of a proper studio.
The quietness within the room was odd, an eerie silence that Jonghyun couldn’t stand for long, used, as he was, to always live with the chattering sound of his bandmates in the background.
Surrounded by aseptic white walls, Minho looked both disproportionately tall and small at once. Devoid of the extravagancy of their stage persona — just a growing teenager with lanky libs and awkward grins.
Jonghyun caught himself staring at him, forgetting for a brief moment why they were chasing each other.
Then, he remembered.
“Idiot–” it wasn’t a yell, more a breathy reprimand with no real anger or resentment etched on his voice. The sense of embarrassment he’d felt at first, was now withering away, like it had never mattered to begin with — it was funny, even, because Minho was worn out by the run as well, but too stubborn to show any sign of fatigue.
His face, turned scarlet, betrayed him.
Instead of mocking him for it, Jonghyun wondered if he himself looked as silly. With a hand resting on his cheek, the warmth of his own skin made him blush harder.
“Tired already?” Minho taunted him, hiding his disappointment under a well-worn poker face shortly after, when his instigation fell flat, no effort by Jonghyun to match his energy. The joke had run for too long, and Minho knew when to get the hint.
Jonghyun walked close, eyes falling upon the flip-phone Minho kept in his hand. A firm grip, impossible to steal even if Jonghyun wanted to try — any attempt would’ve been a new source of derision from the other, another one of his cheeky grins like pins digging under Jonghyun’s skin.
“Delete it,” he said, a fleeting tremor in his words disclosing insecurities that he struggled to address.
On the tip of Minho’s tongue, a joke was clearly slipping out, but he held back from voicing it. Out of respect, or pity, Jonghyun couldn’t tell. Nonetheless, having to beg him felt humiliating enough.
“It’s not a big deal,” Minho murmured, to himself, more than to Jonghyun. His voice had become unexpectedly soft, as though the guilt for his jesting was catching up with him, and seeing Jonghyun wounded by it was now bringing him sorrow, rather than amusement. “I wasn’t going to upload it or anything, I swear.”
Jonghyun pushed Minho’s words in the back of his mind, staring at the phone’s small screen still open on the photo gallery. His picture was there, a grainy close-up of his face in what Minho had jokingly labelled as a display of ugliness. Jonghyun could see glimpses of it — the unflattering light, the small pimples breaking out on his forehead, the uneven texture of his skin.
The more he looked at it, the more discomfort bloomed in the pit of his stomach.
Maybe Minho wasn’t wrong – a little voice inside him kept whispering.
“Hyung.” Fingers wrapped gently around his wrist, leading him to open his hand. “It was a joke, I didn’t mean it.”
The weight of the phone on his palm felt unfamiliar, but welcomed. It was a matter of a mere combination of buttons now, one or two clicks away from deleting the photo and making it vanish forever from their memories.
“Look, I’m doing it,” Minho’s words were followed by concrete actions. The picture disappeared after he clicked ‘confirm’ without showing any hesitation, as simple as it had been to take the photo itself half an hour before.
Minho patted his shoulder then, a resemblance to a gesture of consolation that didn’t go unnoticed. “No more random photos, alright?”
Jonghyun didn’t know yet that some promises were fated to be broken for a good reason.
[summerhaze.35mm]
2012
The place they had sneaked into was nestled in a small, seemingly abandoned street far from the sight of invasive journalists and fanatic supporters alike. An apparent oasis of banality in a city full of fancy brand shops, offices and gambling centres. It was only them — quiet, as quiet a day in Macau could be, with the sweltering weather of the city attached to their clothes, the low buzz of an old fan breaking the silence among them.
Taemin and Jinki were falling asleep on the chair the owner had offered them, sputtering something in Cantonese that had sounded comforting, in spite of the frown the man had welcomed them with. His sense of hospitality was raw, rough but somewhat gentle, shown in little gestures that reminded them they were kids, before anything else.
Kibum had found it a little condescending at first, but then realised the old ahjussi probably didn't know who the odd-dressed kids were, and what had followed was a nice break from their daily life, for once. Being average people: nothing special about them, relishing the fleeting insignificance of their anonymity.
Jonghyun was, amongst them, the one who was enjoying it the most. He was at ease performing on a stage, but living the mundanity of a summer afternoon like a nameless customer suited him well — he was Kim Jonghyun in all his unripe twenty-two years of life, him, a sweaty black shirt sticking to his skin, and a cheap soft serve in his hand.
His mouth was tinted pink by the strawberry flavour he had bought.
By his side, Minho took another sip of his beer, licking the bittersweetness off of his lips. Alcohol always tasted different abroad. He had never wrapped his head around it — if it was a personal feeling, perhaps sensing a sharper bitterness the more homesick he felt.
Which led him to wonder how sweet Jonghyun’s ice cream must've been in comparison. It looked fine, if his pleased grin were any indication. Features soft, pliant and relaxed in a way touring around usually didn’t allow them to be.
At the sight of his mellow beauty, with vaguely sun-kissed skin and unfiltered face, Minho’s hands began to itch. A passing thought, something that was about to linger in his mind for a long time — past this day, this year, surviving the immaturity of his early 20s until becoming too cumbersome, to be kept as a secret.
For now, though, they were both left to cherish the little peace they seldom had for themselves.
“Jjong,” Minho rummaged in his pocket, content to have found what he had been looking for. A little gem saved in a years-old bag abandoned in their dorms — a disposable camera, the sort of outdated piece of technology that wasn’t trendy anymore to carry around. Minho cared little about such opinions, fascinated more by how quick life seemed to change, to the point of leaving behind objects that had meant much for their generation.
It came naturally, then, to immortalise a moment that would vanish in the following days. Buried under their group responsibilities and tight schedule. Discarded like ancient trinkets.
“Say kimchi–”
Jonghyun turned around just slightly, the line of his profile worthy of being photographed in itself. His thick eyebrows shaped in a frown, accompanied by a pout that Minho had to interpret through the small camera eye. Angry or confused, it was hard to tell beyond the blurriness of the lens.
Whatever it was, Jonghyun always had his way of speaking with his body — a sheer honesty that Minho used to envy a little, the first time they had met. Now, that old emotion had been replaced by admiration, or something deeper that couldn’t be named yet. A disorientating feeling that kept him awake at night; not for long, enough to toss himself around and wonder how things would’ve been if they were different people.
Not better or worse. Just different.
When the faint click of the shutter trigger dissipated in the room, he remembered to breathe again, studying Jonghyun now, without the obstacle of the camera hindering his vision.
He was pretty, Minho thought, nothing that a picture could faithfully reproduce.
“Aish— I wasn’t even looking.” Jonghyun groaned, the harshness of his words such a humorous contrast to the soft-looking edges of his strawberry lips. “Give me one second and re-take it.”
Minho let him be, observing with odd curiosity what Jonghyun thought would make him look more presentable. Little gestures as he fixed his appearance, staring at his own reflection in the glass of Minho’s beer bottle. His face gleaming in green hues, like a dangerously handsome alien prince. Or some other foolish metaphor he could come up with in one of his delirious-artistic epiphanies.
One hand brushed through his bangs and then rested on his thigh. A poor attempt to find a proper pose.
In Minho’s eyes, everything looked the exact same. Only his smile was different — a little forced, more measured, but not less beautiful.
“Hyung,” Minho said, the hint of a giggle stuck in his throat. “That was the last one, the roll is over.”
Jonghyun deflated on his seat, ice-cream melting in his hand.
[winner.jpeg]
2015
“Wait,” Minho crouched down, placing Jonghyun’s smartphone on the floor and fishing his out the pocket of his jeans. “Let’s take another one, but pick Roo up this time.”
Hearing her name mentioned, Roo stopped waddling around the room, comically sitting down between Jonghyun’s awards.
Not even the shimmering of the prizes and the glory that came with it could equal the love Jonghyun felt for her, the smile on his lips softening, the tiredness of the day washed away by the friendly wagging of her tail.
She was home, even in those days when everything else felt foreign.
Roo seemed to have picked up the meaning of Minho’s request, because she moved on her own volition, curling up in the space between Jonghyun’s legs with ease, as she had done many other times before, the familiarity of the gesture being a natural extent of their relationship as pet and owner.
The warmth exuded by Jonghyun and the coziness of his casual clothes must’ve been the perfect place to hide in. An impromptu nest that wasn't as comfortable as falling asleep side by side on Jonghyun’s bed. But, like her owner, Roo too was a walking contradiction — she enjoyed being spoiled, yet could adapt to any situation, if needed.
Jonghyun cuddled with her, tickled by her flapping ears and the way she kept nuzzling against his chest. She looked so small in his arms, as though she had been made to fit in his heart from the start, the missing piece for a hollow that couldn’t be filled with anything else.
The amusing part of their relationship was that, to Roo, it was completely irrelevant whether he had been a failed or successful musician. Her affection couldn’t be measured by the number of copies sold or awards displayed on his shelves. And if any of his future albums were to be unknown to the charts and general public, Roo would've been the same, unwavering companion — with that undiluted devotion of her, that asked nothing in return.
Love so absolute, artists would've chiselled masterpieces about it.
Unconditionality that Jonghyun, being an eternal dreamer, still yearned for.
Roo pushed her snout against his cheek, stealing him from his state of fleeting rêverie. In the lull of the room, he remembered the promotional week left behind, and the neurotic adrenaline that performing solo in the next months injected in him.
Not fear of performing — more subtle, hoping to be up to the expectations he had of himself. The crushing yet impelling need to reach the flawed perfection he saw in himself as an artist. As a human being.
He squeezed Roo in a tighter hug, testing the softness of her fur under his fingers, her heartbeat finding an accidental synchrony with his.
In front of them both, Minho had become invisible. The same Choi Minho — the charismatic idol, the people's sweetheart —, who appeared placid now, not as a ghost of the past, when for the sake of others, he had to play the part of a taciturn charmer. His silence seemed sincere, like he'd lost himself somewhere between his mind and the sight before his eyes.
Smiling, even, as a natural reflex he wasn’t aware of.
“You know,” Jonghyun swallowed down a foolish hypothesis — the idea that maybe, maybe he was the one Minho was feeling all tender about, for no specific reason at all. “She's not going to stay still, if you don’t hurry up.”
Minho blinked, perhaps realising that they were real, Jonghyun’s voice, his reprimand, and one, lone bark from Roo, joining the conversation as though to reinforce what her owner had just said.
Jonghyun giggled at her initiative, taking her tiny face in his hands, whispering sweet promises of future treats and idle days they were going to spend together once his schedule had been lighter.
Only then, with that fashion of his — as if he liked taking photos of Jonghyun on purpose when the latter wasn't looking —, Minho clicked the capture button and the shutter sound echoed between them.
The moment exhausted itself quickly, anticlimactic almost, with Roo going back to her toys and an usual silence falling in the room. Minho, busy with his phone, was staring at the photo he had taken — eyes focused, a flicker in them that Jonghyun had seen before, the blazing enthusiasm the other reserved for things he cared about the most.
It was flattering, confusing — or both, as though there had been an inner joke going on that concerned Jonghyun himself, but he wasn’t aware of it yet.
And then, “don’t forget to send it to me too.”
“Uh?” Puzzlement appeared on Minho’s face, looking at him for the first time not through a screen.
“The photo. You didn’t use my phone.” A part of Jonghyun felt a bubbling laughter forming against his ribs. The other, a small corner of his mind, was more amused by how Minho appeared flustered. The tips of his ears red, such an insignificant detail, if it weren’t that stuttering or blushing weren’t typical of his personality.
Minho rolled his eyes, his best acting skill in action to show a feigned indifference. “Of course, I was going to.”
Only later at dawn, after posting his wins on all his SNS, a notification interrupted Jonghyun's already short sleep.
minho
[attachment]
Roo is more photogenic than you.
[Personal.zinkpaper]
2017
The polaroid took time to print itself, the concept of instant being stretched to long seconds Minho spent sitting on a crammed sofa backstage, ignored by everyone around him, the frenziness of another concert ending not touching him at all. A personal state of self-exclusion, finding elation in how life came to be in front of his eyes, made out of ink and lucid paper.
The first layer was the darkest, the subject of the photo no more than a shadow with no face and no defined details yet. A silhouette waiting to be filled, to be given a name and history, blooming through exposed light and such.
The second, instead, resembled more and more the man Minho had spent the zenith and depths of life with — Jonghyun, eyeing someone beyond the lens, glazed eyes, hair like a brownish cloud over his head. The blurry frame of the Polaroid bestowed him a hazy air, untouchable in a sense, and yet so human with his lopsided smile.
While any other idol would’ve teetered between their real self and the idol persona, Jonghyun had always been one and the same.
Unapologetically himself, for better or for worse; with his flaws and qualities alike. The charming stubbornness, his tender vulnerability.
Throughout the years, Minho had learnt to know both, and go beyond that; to each and every habit, along with those insecurities Jonghyun didn’t hide, but didn't always wear with pride either. And only now, as they grew older, past their years of unripeness, Minho had been able to truly appreciate the complexity of Jonghyun’s temperament.
Like an instant polaroid reaching its full development, he could finally see the other in a bigger picture.
The only problem left was that Minho wasn’t ready for what these new conclusions implied.
“It's embarrassing,” a familiar voice said, the sharp edges of those words cutting through his ego. “How pathetic you've been over— whatever this is.”
Slender fingers snatched the polaroid out from the camera, not giving Minho enough time to even feel its weight in his hands, still transfixed by the whole process that had materialised a petit portrait of Jonghyun from nothing.
The camera, though, felt lighter, robbed as it was from a photo that was supposed to be for Minho’s eyes only.
The realisation that it wasn’t his little secret anymore hit him shortly after. Not taken by storm, no. Subtly — shame creeping up beneath his feet and sneaking under his stage outfit, pervasive and stronger than the fierce façade of SHINee's Minho and the role he had in the group.
All of a sudden, it felt like he was back to being that gawky kid who, years ago, had discovered that an emotion more complicated than friendship existed. That he cherished girls, the sound of their laughs and the fullness of their cheeks when they smiled at one of his jokes. But he liked someone else more — squared jaw, firm hands shaped for music, a heart of gold.
Denying the obvious made little sense now, somewhat caught in the act.
“Return it,” he said, a lack of conviction seeping through his words.
“Does he even know you keep taking photos of him behind his back?”
The question carried an accusation not explicitly stated, yet obvious enough to be heard, unmistakably so. “It’s a frontal shot and—”
“Don't play dumb with me.”
Minho blinked, unsure of what he was searching for while looking the other in the eyes. They weren't cold nor did they hold a harsh judgment. It was curiosity, mostly, what made gleamy the gaze falling upon him. As if this not-so-little infatuation had been a secret only to Minho himself.
Leaving him to wonder if Jonghyun knew.
“Kibum.”
“Choi Minho.” Kibum replied back, arms crossed against his chest, the polaroid looking out of place in his grip still.
Minho silenced the voice that was telling him to stand up and take it back by force. The physical advantage he had over Kibum might have been significant, but over-sentimentality and violence were never a valid option for him.
Plus, Kibum had an edge too — a dangerous one, as the little smirk over his lips seemed to suggest. He knew how to poke Minho, which weak spots of his existed to be dug in, navigating through feelings that had gone unsaid for too long.
“It's nothing.” Minho said, the lie slipping too comfortably out of his mouth. Years of denial and uncertainty put in action. “Just a photo, we have hundreds of those.”
Kibum flipped the polaroid in his hands, staring at it properly for the first time. His reaction was muted, almost subdued for his standards. No annoyed huff or any petty one-liner coming from him. Just a smoothed silence, the previous sarcasm on his face evening out, heart clearly softened by Jonghyun’s casual expression.
“Was he crying?” Kibum’s throat worked, darting an insecure glance at Minho. It had been a while since the last time he’d shown something different than his bitchy self.
“Nah,” Minho said quietly, composed, although a part of him was at peace when Kibum sat by his side. The polaroid was, at last, back in his hands. Quickly given as quickly it had been taken from him, as if Kibum had seen what he was looking for, and the reply to his questions had fed his inquisitiveness as expected.
“You know that face he makes—” Minho motioned an expression — or a vague resemblance to how he pictured it. Not with the amount of authenticity that Jonghyun carried, nor an ounce of his poetic elusiveness. But close to it, Minho liked to think. With his eyebrows drawn and a tight smile. “When he’s happy-sad, before a concert?”
Kibum nodded, slipping back to his usual, sarcastic mask. “You always notice those little differences about him, don’t you?”
Minho held his answer. The words settled in between them like thick fog.
“That means nothing,” a beat. “Isn’t it how it’s supposed to be? We are group-mates, I could do the same with you.”
Kibum wrinkled his nose, disgusted, a flash of visible repulsion crossing his face. “Oh, trust me. You don’t. As a matter of fact, I could ask you to take a photo of me right now and you would make me look like an ugly gremlin on purpose.”
“That’s on you and your face,” Minho giggled, feigning being hurt as Kibum punched him on the shoulder.
“I meant what I said.” Kibum’s eyes fell once again on the picture, still resting on Minho’s lap. “You know it already. Take this as you will, but we’re not all blind. He isn’t— that’s for sure.”
If at the end of the tour, Minho hid the polaroid in an old notebook in his bedroom, stuck among other memories of their past years, no one had to know.
The amount of photos featuring Jonghyun was too high now, to be justified as an unfortunate coincidence.
[idiot2.photostrip]
2019
Jonghyun scoffed as soon as he spotted the other sitting in the corner, at a small table by the window of the café. An anonymous affair for someone accustomed to loud ceremonies and fanfares. And even in the quietude, it was perhaps too easy to recognise him: Minho, a black cap on, fingers drumming on the woody surface of their table.
Despite the plain clothes, there was something unmistakably unique about him. Must’ve been his poise, beyond the nervousness, or the way he looked good even while frowning. After all, with a face like his, becoming one with the crowd was out of the question.
But Jonghyun liked it — liked that Minho was as ordinary as their lives allowed them to be, and imagining themselves being random friends meeting outside, and not their nation's pop music princes, came naturally.
The location added charm to the view. A vintage frame for a café that suited Jonghyun’s tastes more than Minho’s, who didn’t look like a fish out of water, but was obviously not the ideal regular for a place like that.
It wasn’t much of a stretch, thinking he had chosen the café out of thousands in Seoul for a reason. Sitting there to indulge Jonghyun’s need for tranquillity, rather than listening to any of his own cravings.
Those were the little gestures, details, that kept Jonghyun awake at night, overthinking about their relationship and the burden that being friends with him entailed.
He had had many thoughts of this sort lately. On his career, enlisting, being just a breath away from his 30s. Thoughts about himself, and about Minho. As separate entities and more.
Jonghyun moved like smoke, plumbing himself down the empty chair in front of Minho. No superfluous introduction or overly formal greetings.
Minho stared at him with no hint of surprise, as if he had rehearsed this moment for so long in the minutes prior to his arrival, that finally having Jonghyun for himself felt like adding the last piece to a complex puzzle. Relief peeking behind his lids, behind the twitch of his lips.
Half a smile appeared on his mouth. More deliberated, but for that no less sincere.
Jonghyun matched his energy with a mirrored grin. “So, big day tomorrow.”
“Big day,” Minho echoed back. “Cutting my hair wasn’t as traumatic as I thought.”
“Easy, you would look fine even with a mop over your head.”
Minho chuckled, letting the joke slide over him. Nothing deep, even if it didn’t stop him from lifting the cap and brushing a hand over his buzzcut with a hint of unfamiliar self-consciousness.
Jonghyun hadn’t lied. He did look good, more than fine — a seasoned version of the Minho he used to know, perhaps with more years to carry on his shoulders, a maturity that should’ve not made him feel older. Girls were going to lose their sanity over him, understandably so. Jonghyun wouldn’t blame them one bit.
Minho was made for this. The first SM idol enlisting in the marine corps. Ever the bravest, the impavid example.
In comparison, Jonghyun was still mourning the dyed silver of his hair, forced to return to his natural black. The length was growing back, at least, after a couple of months. But it was rough, no matter how many days he had spent out of the limelights.
The first weeks had been a nightmare, while the rest an uninspiring loop of repetitive tasks. The weekends he had for himself were liberating and a danger all at once.
The more free time he had, the more he rotted in his bed, thinking.
A curse. Or not. A privilege.
Not something Minho needed to know now. Today was about him and him only.
“Hyung,” Minho said, with a certain heaviness in his voice, the one that said he could somehow hear what Jonghyun was thinking about himself. “Have you been eating well?”
Jonghyun laughed, glad that being a civil servant meant clocking in and out like many of their fans did. A resemblance of normality he couldn’t really adjust himself to, but seeing his mother and sister every evening felt different.
Eating together. Chatting without the worry of running somewhere else for a music show or whatnot. Different, but good, in a way the frenziness of his idol life had deprived him of.
Conversely, the calmer pace of his life had had an odd influence on his creativity — slowed down, like there wasn’t much to romanticise about in his lyrics when his day dawned at 9am just to end at 5pm.
Nonetheless, he shared bites and pieces of his days with a grin on his face, glossing over the parts he knew would worry Minho, and over-emphasising the little joys that did make him happier.
It was all about balance.
Mum's home cooking every dinner was a blessing. On the other hand, regular sleeping hours still escaped him, but that was okay. He wouldn’t have been himself without the insomnia and the chronic tiredness, he thought.
Leaving home during the morning with his sister was fun, matching each other’s work schedule and even eating lunch together, when they could.
Minho jested about him getting too comfortable with his civilian life and forgetting about the company. Something along the lines of going indie, becoming one of those intellectual artists whose music was created to be enjoyed outside of the artificiality of big labels.
It was a joke, but Jonghyun did think about it, sometimes. Born on the small stages of his high school he was, with a cheap bass guitar in his hands. It made sense to go back to what he had always been.
“You should’ve come over for dinner,” he said, instead of bothering the other further with a routine that lacked the valiance and intrigue that were awaiting Minho in his next months. “Sodam was hoping to see you before enlisting. Roo too, even if you bully her all the time.”
“She loves me, the same way you do. More, if I tease you both.” Minho giggled, eyes speckled with a certain nostalgia they were familiar with.
Jonghyun let the sound of that laughter echo in him, in between his ribs and close to his heart, but without meeting the other’s eyes anymore.
This was the moment Minho would tell him to look after himself, to think about him while going home from his work shift. Not turning it into a routine. Just once in a while, a passing thought, like you would do with the things you take for granted and know that would come back to you sooner or later.
Gaze diverted, Jonghyun tilted his chin towards the intricate marquetry on the table’s surface. Still empty. All this time spent chatting with no drink to dive into yet.
It was getting late.
“Listen,” Minho murmured. His hands were no longer in sight, rummaging inside his jacket as though his pockets held some twisted secret that could explain the origins of the universe and other things no one else knew. “I’m going to give you something.”
“Okay.”
When Jonghyun didn’t blink, Minho did for him, the mild surprise taking place between his eyebrows, a view Jonghyun promised himself to carve in his memories. Hopefully as something he would laugh at later on.
“You’re not going to ask what it is first?”
Jonghyun played with the ring he was wearing on his thumb. “Should I? It must be important, considering I don’t know the next time we’ll see each other. And whatever it is, I'll make sure to treasure it. I’ll return it in the same conditions.”
“That’s the thing,” Minho clenched his jaw. “I want you to keep it even when I’ll be back.”
“Alright.” Jonghyun said, weakly, his ring slipping out his finger with more ease, the gesture too swift as his now clammy skin making it easier for the silver band to slide up and down his thumb.
Maybe it was more serious than what he had imagined.
“It's yours now,” Minho said, taking Jonghyun’s hand in his. There was a sense of finality etched to his voice, that didn’t allow hesitation or remorse. Palm open, grip never weakening, as though he knew Jonghyun would've tried to refuse the gift by withdrawing his hand.
And he did think about it, once he'd seen what it was. But the shock of its existence, added to the warmth of Minho’s touch, petrified him on his seat. Forgetting altogether what it meant to be able to escape and pretending certain lingering feelings didn’t exist.
It was a photo strip. Three pictures of them stuck one above the other.
The paper had faded a little, an obvious sign of time, telling it had been through a lot, perhaps as an improvised marker in between the pages of a book, or consumed by all the occasions Minho had taken it around with him. Folded in his wallet or who-knows-where.
Jonghyun stared at the photos. The peak of their youth staring back at him.
They couldn’t be older than twenty there.
Unmistakably, with his lasagna hair and long bangs framing Minho’s unbothered face.
The memory still clear — that day, with their knees bumping against one another, limbs entangling and intertwining in a messy knot with no clear delimitations, to the point that Jonghyun couldn’t tell where his own body began and ended.
He had been left with poor assumptions: where he felt softness, there was himself, his oversized shirt and the small bag wrapped around his chest. Under him must’ve been, by principle of exclusion, Minho and the rest of him. Be damned his long legs and growing shoulders.
The booth hadn’t been built with more than one person in mind, crammed space occupied by late teens too aware of their bodies changing. Taking pictures as a souvenir in such an old-school place must’ve been a way to preserve the moment, no more iconic way to be frozen in time than a strip, typical for them, raised with printed photos and questionable filters.
Back then, he had found it unnerving, perhaps because of its immediacy. And the fact that Minho had selected the ugliest shots on purpose. As usual, with Jonghyun not looking at the camera in any of them.
The first, frowning as Minho pinched his arm.
The second, a perfect follow-up: like an old silent comedy, repaying such a silly act of violence with equal foolishness.
It was oddly sentimental, the last one.
Jonghyun was kissing Minho on the cheek — the kind of ugly smooch some would give out of spite, a revenge finding fulfillment in Minho’s reaction. Surprised, a little, but mostly disgusted. The tip of Jonghyun’s tongue wet against his skin with purposeful determination.
And then, Jonghyun remembered Minho had spent the rest of that day with a hand over his cheek.
The memory buried somewhere in their minds and never unearthed again.
“Why?”
Minho replied in a low voice, “old me considered it cute. From there it just stuck with me, I guess.”
“No, I meant—why now?”
Minho lowered his gaze, bathing in the sight of it as if to sculpt the memory of those days in his mind for the last time. Giving it up seemed painful, an unscripted sacrifice that Jonghyun struggled to understand —why even parting with it, after all these years?
“It’s like you said, isn’t it.” said Minho. “Who knows when we’ll see each other again. 19 months and I could be a different man. Maybe for the worse. I’d rather you remembered me for how I was.”
To Jonghyun, it sounded like a lie. A frustrating one, its nature stemming from something he couldn’t grasp.
“What if I’ll be the one changing instead?” Minho squinched up his face, the likelihood of Jonghyun’s words becoming true as a possibility he had obviously not considered.
He took his long minutes to find an answer, the depth of Jonghyun’s question visibly sinking in his mind and challenging what he’d always believed in.
And then, “I’d learn to love you all over again.”
As a friend. Or not.
Whatever that meant.
[???. photographic negative]
2025
Minho should’ve expected Jonghyun to show up at his apartment, instead of answering his text first like any other person would’ve done. And there he was, indeed, standing on the threshold — perfectly awake, as if life itself for him was conceived in the middle of the night and only at night could it be properly relished.
No need to follow societal rules, when it was under Seoul’s starry sky where he thrived the most.
Minho didn’t share the same feeling, despite having a similar routine. But then again, if nights had been made for sleeping, he had missed the memo, for once.
Staying in bed with his eyes closed had brought little comfort to his mind – stomach twisting, at the mercy of something bigger than insomnia or the thrilling feeling preceding a comeback. Jogging around the neighbourhood hadn’t helped either, surprisingly so, doing nothing but matching an already aching heart to now aching muscles as well.
In hindsight, texting Jonghyun and waiting for a reply had been worse than curating the photography exhibition in itself.
Both ideas had taken a toll on his mental sanity, but having to talk to Jonghyun about the project and its complications was the most dangerous of the two; like the turning point he had learnt to act off in movies — the crucial scene people would either love or desperately hate, changing the protagonists’ lives forever.
Except, Minho’s problem was as real as it could be, and not a plot device of a creative director leading their characters-puppets to an end.
He couldn’t predict his and Jonghyun’s epilogue. Too early to say if it was better that way for his own good.
For now, he could only think how the sound of his door bell had reached his ears with unusual clarity. Door open, he steeped himself in the dimly-lit hallway, wishing he had a way to say that his home was Jonghyun’s too, without sounding banal.
Truth be told, Jonghyun invited himself over. Like in many other occasions, without permission — inside Minho’s heart, mind, and some other cliched sentences that could be whispered to describe a love so elusive and yet all-encompassing.
He did his best to remind Minho of that. Consciously or not — in all his glory, him, the somewhat comical pout on his face and that bad mouth of his, one that people who knew him for his artistry would never imagine able to pronounce profanities.
Someone did say that behind the biggest lover, hides the heart of a hater too.
To prove the point, Jonghyun scrutinised him from head to toe. Eyes running up and down, past his face, arms, legs, up to each bleached blond hair falling over his temples. Minho would’ve felt flattered by the attention, if only the other hadn’t looked so upset about it.
In the end, Jonghyun settled with saying, “you idiot.”
The worry that had turned his features into stone washed away by something — a silent confirmation, perhaps that Minho was fine and well, and not doomed by whatever tragic scenario Jonghyun had pictured him in.
“Hello to you too, I guess.” Minho said, a twinge of affection overwhelming him as Jonghyun stepped inside the apartment. Odd, at first, the feeling of sharing the same place with him, somewhere personal, that wasn’t on a stage, in a studio or at the gym. There had always been the afternoons spent in idleness at Jonghyun’s house too, but for once, knowing he was the one breathing and living in Minho’s space, and not the opposite, felt, for short of words, odd.
Good strangeness — the kind that left him gulping for breath, the infatuation he felt shaped as a sheen of sweat glazing his nape.
“It’s almost 2am.” He stated, his voice straining a little, tongue resting dry in his mouth. “What are you even here for?”
“You texted me,” said Jonghyun, a hint of frustration — too sweetly expressed to be taken seriously, eliciting an even more amused response from Minho, as he was put in front of Jonghyun’s phone, the screen showing their chat open.
[Tell me when you’re free], it read. [We need to talk about something.]
Unequivocally his. The texts, the small profile picture, the name displayed.
“I thought you were—” Jonghyun weighed his words, the frown on his forehead appearing again, deeper than before. “You looked stressed while we were rehearsing this morning. I was worried.”
“I could’ve phrased it better,” said Minho, the line of his shoulders softened, with it the edges of his lips too, a tender smile that didn't convince Jonghyun at first, hesitation still blatant on his face.
Minho rested a hand on the back of Jonghyun’s head, a casual pat turning into a deeper gesture of comfort; his arm wrapped the elder in half a hug, something that should’ve reassured him, but Minho felt egoistic about it — it was more for himself, seeking contact, empathy through a touch, like he needed to know that his hyung was going to be patient with him for the next hours.
“But you’re fine, yeah?”
Minho nodded, “just nervous, but let’s talk about it in a bit. Since you’re here.”
Minho knew Jonghyun wasn’t stupid enough to buy the whole ‘being a proper host’ façade now. Not after a text popping up in the middle of the night, preannouncing a conversation that didn’t sound like a pleasant chat between friends. But Minho was glad that the other played along with it. Out of pity or for their mutual affection, hard to tell.
Shoes off, Jonghyun found his way towards the kitchen — with ease, as though he had been in Minho’s apartment thousands of times already, perhaps capable of naming the titles of each DVDs Minho had on his shelves, or reconstructing the chronology of each award displayed in his living room.
Perched quickly on a stool, like his name had been carved on it.
For a fleeting moment, Minho was frightened of how natural it all felt. How mundane the picture of Jonghyun amongst his things was. No awkwardness lingering in between them, no empty silences waiting to be filled.
Before long, talking about everything and nothing came easily. Jonghyun knew how to be reserved, but he had always been a great conversationalist. Minho’s extrovert personality might have done the rest, but roving from one topic to another was natural for both, in a way difficult to explain in its fullness to others.
Minho could get carried away by the manner with which Jonghyun narrated his disaventures and projects alike.
He was comical in sharing a silly anecdote about his family or the last random encounter at the gym. But it was when talking about his music, where he shined the most. Minho could sense it, in the little chuckles for a demo accidentally deleted, or in the dreamy timbre his voice would hold, whenever he whispered about a song and its meaning. Like no one else was supposed to know. Just for him and Minho only.
Getting a glimpse of the mind behind the art had been a privilege for Minho since the very first time Jonghyun had handed his own written lyrics to the group’s producers. More than a decade later, and Minho still wondered how many hearts Jonghyun had had to steal to convey the poignancy his songs were full of.
And if he knew—
If he knew that among them, there was Minho’s too.
Silently loving. A torture, for a man stranger to half measures.
Spending the rest of the night listening to him babbling about his ideas was simply an extension of that — lending an ear, chirping an advice once or twice, something about supporting his being opinionated with the company, admiring him for the way he would find compromises for everything except his music.
Perhaps that was why being fond of him was so easy — a very give it or take situation, either falling for Jonghyun in his entirety, or simply not loving him at all. Minho knew which way was his, finding a part of himself in Jonghyun’s stubbornness, in his integrity.
Art in all its form was about being truthful, after all.
That should’ve been the same for his photographs too.
“Minho.” Jonghyun said at some point of the night, his voice holding the same fuzziness used to describe his songs.
Minho doubted he deserved such honours, but still replied with a nod, aware of what he had implicitly been asked.
“Come, I’ll show you something.”
Jonghyun did stand up when Minho moved, mirroring each of his movements like a dance whose only purpose was postponing the inevitable. The walk from the kitchen to his bathroom never as insidious as tonight, past discarded empty cups of coffee and old magazines he had drawn inspiration from.
The confusion on Jonghyun’s face was palpable. He threw a vague look towards Minho’s bedroom, the door left ajar, unable to find the answers he was looking for by himself.
“You know, I’ve asked the company to let me hold an exhibition," Minho said, with one hand wrapping around the doorknob of his bathroom.
Jonghyun tut-tutted, showing little astonishment, much to Minho’s surprise. “So I’ve heard. Is this what you’re secretive about?”
“That’s not it.” Minho said, a little defensive. The idea of having his own photo exhibition had always been a common rumour in the group for years. An ‘I heard it through the grapevine’ affair that never involved the other members in itself, but they were aware of it. Jinki had shown support. Kibum had seen some of the photos. Taemin had been there when Minho had taken some of them, abroad, vague memories of their holidays together.
Jonghyun — well, with Jonghyun—
“It’s complicated.” Minho reiterated, like exposing what was hiding in the next room was similar to putting his entire life to the test. It was, in a sense. He was about to expose much of himself, perhaps in a way he had never done before.
“It's not,” Jonghyun insisted. “Unless you’re on the run and hiding something illegal in there. I’m not the best liar, if you have the police on your back.”
Minho laughed, and Jonghyun with him. Part of the anxiety he had felt less thick, less oppressive now, despite the burden on his chest still being there. Heavier, as Jonghyun rested his hand on his, pushing the doorknob forward.
Minho had one last chance to stop him, but did not. The door opened, a dim light spilling over the floor, filling their sight, until it reached Jonghyun himself and red bathed him from head to toe. In the small place of the bathroom turned into an amateurish darkroom, between the sink and the tub, he stood in silence. Contemplating, perhaps, with invisible gears inside his mind turning in search of the proper questions to ask if he wanted to receive proper answers back.
Minho was gathering some on his own. Things he had practiced for long, overthinking maybe, when following his instincts was what he was skilled in the most.
He could start from the very beginning — how accidental it had been, at first. From there, the rest had quietly followed. Just memories, he had thought. But Jonghyun had always been too bewitching, too pretty, to just be a static presence in a photo or two.
One had led to another, recognising a pattern only after the others had been the ones noticing it before him.
Now, on an improvised clothes line, their entire life together had been left hanging dry.
From the imperfect smiles of their teen years to the wisdom that their seniority now brought them.
Jonghyun had changed much and yet so little to Minho’s eyes — the same resoluteness, the same intrinsic intuition for matters of the heart.
And if in some of the pictures he looked more confined in his own mind, Minho still found beauty worthy of being photographed.
Eventually, Jonghyun moved around the room, as much as the space around them allowed him to. Chin tilted up, staring with subtle curiosity at the last photos Minho had been working on. Backstage snapshots, foreign landscapes making SHINee look small, compared to all the countries they had toured in. Then, there were all the others — one of Jonghyun with a melted ice cream in his hand. Another with Roo sitting on his lap. And tens more, capturing such trivial moments of his life, up to the most recent days spent together.
Nothing shocking enough to make him speak, out of anger or disappointment. He was quiet; silence settling between them in a way Minho wasn’t unfamiliar with, but the more they didn’t talk, the more Minho worried about him.
Jonghyun breathed in, the only sound coming from him after long minutes of unreadable placidity. Minho saw him raising his arm, hand reaching out to take a photo in front of him. No uttered word to explain why that one, in particular, amongst the bunch.
Minho remembered taking it after the showcase for She is had taken place. Jonghyun’s pink hair had created such a buzz all over the internet, the kind of gossip that always made Minho smile hard. Because Jonghyun was a talented artist and an exceptional friend, and beyond that, he was also gorgeous to look at. Hearing people praising all sides of him clearly made him feel appreciated. As a consequence, it just made sense for Minho to be happy as well.
Almost ten years later, and Jonghyun had dyed his hair pink again. A coincidence, maybe. Or a reminder to himself.
“You shouldn’t—” Minho interrupted the moment, catching Jonghyun by the wrist, before he could seize the picture from its clip and disrupt the line of displayed films.
Heat flooded Minho’s face when a response came in the form of a frown, a stern expression on Jonghyun’s face that left little space for interpretation. An act of defiance, almost, like he was implicitly saying that he could do whatever he wanted, considering the circumstances. If Minho could arrogate to himself the right to fill up his bathroom with Jonghyun’s photos, then Jonghyun himself could touch whatever object was present in the room.
A fair exchange.
“They’re still wet.” Minho said, barely able to hold his gaze. “Trust me, it’s a mess when the ink gets all over you.”
Jonghyun did little to show he was satisfied by his answer, but Minho decided he could take the lack of a proper reply on his face as a good omen. At times, nothing was better than a straightforward rejection.
And then, out of nowhere, “how long?”
Minho rubbed the back of his neck, feeling pretty much like a man who had just been caught doing something he should not. “It takes a couple of hours, usually. The setting is a little cheap. I could always call a studio and develop everything there, but I’ve seen an old photo… filters wouldn’t do. I want to try to reproduce a specific analog look.”
As he kept talking, Jonghyun squeezed his eyes, a small smile breaking on his lips. He turned his attention to the picture again, but his posture was different now — out with the reticence, less rigid. His shoulders hunched, enough to make himself smaller with the photos hanging over his head.
Minho could swear he saw a blush spreading over his cheeks. Or maybe, there was something in the light, that made it look that way. Jonghyun abashed, the realisation that Minho had been doing all this for him dawning over him all at once.
“How long have you been—?” The question lingered between them, abruptly cut and yet obvious. Jonghyun didn’t need to add anything else, not when decades of their life as group-mates were in front of him as proof of something so undeniable.
“Hyung.” Minho bit the inside of cheek. So much to tell, struggling to find how to. “I don’t want to make it weird.”
“It isn’t, I promise.” Jonghyun embraced himself, arms across his chest. “I’m more upset with myself, to be honest.”
Minho blinked, mouth pressed thin.
“I thought Taeminnie wasn’t serious about it.” Jonghyun said, his eyes escaping Minho, lost somewhere in between the equipment scattered in the room and their photos. Of being affectionate to each other. Laughing. Hugging. The seldom silly poses, with Minho leaning on Jonghyun’s shoulder, the latter doing the same. It had meant nothing, back then. Natural, as natural many things had been between them.
“You knew?” Minho said, gulping. He couldn't help himself from trying to find a sense in Jonghyun’s words. With what gesture had he betrayed himself — had it been the friendly teasing? Or the weak spot everyone said Minho had always had for him?
“Not about–this, exactly.” Jonghyun gestured to their surroundings, the flush on his face now unmistakably his. “I told myself that’s how you are with everyone. That it was all in my head, that the others were joking.”
Minho brushed a hand over his face, the situation bordering comedy. He would laugh at it, if it wasn’t for how embarrassed that made him feel. “In all fairness, I was being stupid about it.”
“Yeah,” Jonghyun whispered, in a hurry to agree with him, reiterating how such a fool he had been for no reason at all. “You could’ve told me.”
Easy to say, in retrospect.
“And then what? Jeopardise the group and look stupid in front of you?”
“You’re speaking like you’ve ever cared about what others think about you.” Jonghyun swallowed. Upset, but not really. “Overcome it, right?”
“It has never been about others.” Minho replied, his voice masking behind a façade of coolness that he didn’t feel. “Hyung, you have no idea— I’ve been liking you for so long.”
Jonghyun’s face twisted after that, shushed by the sheer honesty of his confession. It gave both pause, the thoughts in their mind caught in a tide that they didn’t expect, for a night that looked anything but extraordinary.
Then Jonghyun moved, taken by a rush Minho couldn’t explain, despite seeing it unfolding before him. Their arms brushed casually against one another, no more than a brief moment, just enough for Jonghyun to tip-toe again over the tub, snatching one of the photos from the clothesline. Part of the still fresh ink got smeared under his fingertips, the picture’s details blurring out as he pushed it with insistence in front of Minho.
Déjà-Boo’s award season. Sitting on the floor, Roo by his side. The golden colour of the prizes had left the photo film, staining Jonghyun’s thumb.
“That day,” Jonghyun started, “I was going to tell you, playing it off as just teasing you, if all went wrong. Roo must’ve fallen asleep listening to me rambling about you all night instead.”
Minho blinked, staring at the younger Jonghyun in the photo and back to the present again. From there, he caught up with what Jonghyun was trying to do fairly quickly. If he wanted a challenge, a challenge Minho was about to give him.
His eyes darted fast from one side of the bathroom to the other, thinking where some of their oldest photos must be. He skimmed through them until he found it. 2011 — Jonghyun was busy eating a hamburger, a post-concert snack that was supposed to be a secret, breaking their rigid diet schedule. Wrapped around his wrist, a colourful bracelet stood out in an otherwise black-and-white photo.
“Our first big tour in Japan.” It was Minho’s turn now, to stick the photo under Jonghyun’s nose. The kind of pettiness that he knew would bring him victory in this silly competition of theirs. “A fan caught me buying this, bet she thought I had a secret lover.”
Misanga - Japanese goodluck bracelets - had suddenly become popular among younger generations in the middle of the 2000s. The memory was hazy, but Minho remembered fretting over which one would’ve suited Jonghyun better. Red and blue had made immediately sense, being their official colours. Speaking to them in a way that Minho had considered meaningful back then, now left with the aftertaste of a corny gesture.
Jonghyun rolled his eyes, still betrayed by the small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Who the hell would buy a friendship bracelet to someone they like!”
“I–what? I thought it was cute!”
Jonghyun scoffed, showing less and less patience as the conversation went on. New anecdotes resurfacing whenever one of them picked a photo that meant something — days lived together and yet remembered in different ways, with Minho claiming his interest had been subtle, yes, but backed by time and silent constancy. The emotion had never dithered, growing stronger in their moments of absence, and more vivid when taking their friendship for granted had been the easiest choice. His, being proved as more than an infatuation given by the circumstances they had become men in.
On his part, Jonghyun was too proud to not even attempt to clutch at some last straws, to the point of catching Minho off guard, in the end.
He reached into his pockets and opened his wallet, fishing the photo strip Minho had given him years ago. His enlistment gift, Jonghyun had renamed it.
“I kissed you, you didn’t even consider that—”
“Aish!” Minho wagged his finger at him. “Don’t play dirty, that doesn’t count.”
“Good.” Jonghyun said, the finality of it confusing Minho — he was expecting Jonghyun to either leave, or accept the defeat, at last. Instead, “let’s see if it doesn’t count like this, then.”
The proximity didn’t feel new, but the surge of confidence did. Jonghyun stepped in front of him, a last gleam of hesitancy in his eyes, as if to be sure they weren’t dreaming any of this — that it was real, Minho’s devotion, its mutuality.
Jonghyun's hand curled over Minho’s nape, guiding him down, to cut the few inches left to separate them. Up close, there was something Minho could see for the first time, that no digitally-advanced camera could ever capture in all its details. The texture of Jonghyun’s skin, the hint of growing stubble and of dark circles around his eyes. The sound of his breath and feverish agitation in his touch, gentle, like a part of him was struggling between taking the lead and seeking for an act of reciprocity.
Minho got the message and met him halfway, by kissing him first.
Grand, it was, despite being no more than a tentative peck on Jonghyun’s mouth, testing the taste of his lips, the warmth of a pleased moan breaking against Minho’s face. It echoed the stomach-churning emotions of their teen years, when even entertaining the mere idea of being intimate with him had been enough to turn Minho’s world upside down. Asking himself what had been the chances to see it happen. What he could have given to Jonghyun, to show he was worthy.
In reality, the fantasies did little justice to his real self. Jonghyun’s lips were softer. His presence more tender, indulging in the way Minho showed himself reverential with his hands and mouth.
With Jonghyun’s face cupped in his hands, chasing a kiss after another, until their emptied chests craved for air again, the fogginess of their mind replaced by a peaceful state of clarity.
Minho sighed.
Jonghyun shortly followed.
Another kiss against the shell of Minho’s ear, and the latter thought it was ironic — how even being locked in his bathroom, lights low, could be turned into the highest metaphor of bliss.
Minho traced Jonghyun’s jawline with his thumb, as if to draw his profile, writing each angle and soft curve of his in his mind. The urgency of kissing him again wasn’t quelled fully, surviving somewhere, from the pit of his stomach. He kept it at bay, acquiescing with what he had. Jonghyun in his arms, staring up at him with starry eyes and cherry-red lips.
“I think—” Minho said, breathless, “that I shouldn’t display them.”
“Uh?”
“The photos.” He muttered, attention back to the mess they had made. Half of them had to be developed again, anyway. “I wanted to ask for your permission. ‘would’ve been weird, to plaster your face all over a gallery. But now—I’m thinking–”
Jonghyun blinked, his words never ringing clearer as in that moment. “You could always take one now.”
“What?”
“A compromise, isn’t it? I don’t need to be paraded in an entire room. And you don’t have to throw away all your work either. Take just one shot, frame it, do whatever you need.”
The advice simmered in Minho’s head, hoping that letting it sink in his conscience could help him regain his rationality. Far from it, but he managed with, “now?”
“What, suddenly I’m not pretty enough for a photo?”
Minho huffed as he let his arms down, freeing Jonghyun from their embrace. A sense of loss already creeping in, grieving the moment he had to leave the room to fetch his camera.
“Hyung, you’re impossible.”
Jonghyun smirked — the full edges of a grin that Minho knew too well. One of the many reasons why he had fallen for him to begin with.